


A Squib at Hogwarts

by Hemlockconium



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asexual Character, Bisexual Female Character, Character Death, Demisexuality, Hogwarts, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Learning Disabilities, Loss, Loss of Identity, Moral Lessons, Multi, Original Character(s), Post-War, Pre-War, Prejudice, Social Justice, Squibs, Swearing, Trans Character, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2020-05-13 10:52:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19249717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hemlockconium/pseuds/Hemlockconium
Summary: Squibs are viewed with disdain by most witches and wizards. They're born without magic, and they're taught that this makes them lesser. They're exiled from their community based on something that they did not choose and that they cannot control. But one girl is going to turn that all around because there is no shame in being different.





	1. Introductions

Let’s not waste each others' time. I don’t know what you’re hoping to find here: justification, insight, entertainment… it doesn’t matter, just know that this story is not designed to cater to your sensibilities. I haven’t the time nor the inclination to be delicate.

Throughout my life, I have refined the art of deception. Lying comes more naturally to me than breathing, but there will be no falsehoods here. I’m too old, and I’m too tired, and the truth is more important. However, if the truth is too much for you, you know the way out.

If you wish to know a bit more about the story I’m going to tell before casting your vote, I shall take the next few minutes to explain it to you, and you can decide then whether or not I am worth your time.

I come from a long line of witches and wizards; my family is the half-blood offshoot of the Goyles, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight (I.e.the twenty-eight British families that are the purest of the pure-bloods). My mother and father both had magic, as well as very successful careers with the Ministry of Magic; I have an older brother named Conor who’s a gigantic prick, and who is also, unfortunately, very magically gifted; and a little sister named Aileen who was instrumental to my getting into Hogwarts. I’m the middle child, which is the worst child to be in any family, and most middle children will agree with me.

My ‘middle child’ status was made that much worse, though, when it became evident that I was magically impotent.

I ought to explain what a Squib is, in case you don’t already know (it’ll save you the trouble of nodding along while pretending to know what I’m going on about but really not having a clue and rushing home to look it up later). A Squib is a person born into a wizarding family but who doesn’t possess any magical powers; it is the opposite of a Muggle-born.

I’m not sure who coined the term, all I know is that it’s been around for a long time and that it’s an ugly little word. Try it; it doesn’t matter what inflexion you give it, it will never ring nicely. It is the least sexy word of the planet; even ‘phlegm’ sounds sexier than ‘Squib’. That was probably the point. Wizard-kind looks down on Squibs—and I do mean all of wizard-kind, even the more open-minded ones, because if it isn’t disdain that they look at us with, then it’s pity, or something equally as patronising. I kind of like the word, though. It’s either that or hate it, and I won’t give them the satisfaction. I suppose that’s how my little scheme started: out of spite.

You see, when I was growing up, and for much of my adult life, schools of magic did not accept Squibs. They claimed to have nothing to teach us. I’m living proof that they were mistaken, but I’ll get to that later. The wizarding community does not officially recognise Muggle education; thus, if you are not educated in a magical school, in their eyes, you are not educated at all. It was a conundrum for people like me: the only way for us to become fully fledged members of the community we grew up in was to attend a magic school, such as Hogwarts, but such schools did not tolerate our presence. It didn’t leave us with very many options: either poverty and destitution or self-imposed exile from the only world we’d ever known; neither of which is terribly appealing, you’ll agree.

So, here’s the thing: I’m a Squib, and in Hogwarts’ long history, there has never been a single Squib who’s been taught there. The farthest a Squib has ever gotten was to the Sorting Hat, and then that old rag went and exposed him.

Well, I didn’t let that happen to me. Hogwarts was the gateway to the future I wanted, a future that did not include my total erasure from my family tree and my community’s memory. I wanted more than the world was willing to give me, more than the scraps thrown to the dregs of society, and I was ready to fight for it (not literally, obviously, I’m very short and have all the physical strength of Pomeranian, but there are always other ways).

This is the story of a world where inequality thrives, and ignorance breeds eternally. It is the story of a system of privilege that perpetuates itself by hiding behind fantastic beasts and brilliant feats of magic. Because who wants to look at the bad side of a world that is so beautiful? Who would willingly remove their rose-tinted glasses to take a look at all the murky browns and dull greys of the universe? I’m not sure I would have done if I’d been giving the choice.

But here you are, prepared to take your first unadulterated look at the world. I’d congratulate you if I didn’t think you were completely insane. Trust me, the saying is correct: ignorance is bliss. To be aware of the problems of the world is a terrible and painful thing. Perhaps your eyes have already been opened; that would make this easier, I suppose, but not by much.

It can take a lifetime to unlearn all the toxic things we’ve been taught; it’s a good that you’re starting so young, and, my dear, at my age, anyone under ninety is young.

So are you still interested in hearing the ramblings of an old woman?

Alright then…

My name is Cassidy Doyle, and this is how to bullshit your way through seven years of magical education with no magic to speak of.


	2. My Childhood

Back so soon?

I guess I’d better get started then…

I grew up in Northern Ireland, up by the sea. My brother and sister and I had a governess who looked after us while our parents were at work, and generally while they were at home also. She was a mean old woman with a craggy face and strong hands. She would spank us when we misbehaved; insult us and demean us when we were good. It was character building, apparently.

Our father was already an old man when my brother was born. Our mother was younger but still older than most of our classmates’ parents. It was a marriage of convenience: he wanted the company, and she needed his influence to get ahead in life, simple as that. Father was the one who insisted on having children. He was the last of his name, and he wanted an heir and a spare, as the saying goes. Not to mention it would dissuade his new wife from running off if the fancy ever struck her.

They were both very pleased with my brother, a bouncing baby boy with very healthy lungs. My sister and I were disappointing, though, because we were born female and were, therefore, of secondary importance.

My early childhood was unexceptional. My brother was dotted on, even by our governess, and my sister also managed to wheedle her way into people’s hearts. I didn’t follow in Aileen’s footsteps, though. I was irrevocably branded as the ‘unpleasant’ child ever since a severe case of colic when I was a baby.

That should have been the first sign. Witches and wizards are rarely affected by Muggle illnesses, but Squibs are far more prone to them, and I got the lot: whooping cough, measles, croup, chickenpox, ear infections… My parents turned a blind eye, preferring to believe that I was faking it, rather than face the reality of what I am. The lack of treatment meant that I grew up feeble and small: an easy target. As such, I learned to develop other skills. I’d known that I would never become a paragon of fitness and health, but as each disease and ailment wrecked through my body, my mind remained unharmed.

I read a lot, working my way through my father’s library, inhaling knowledge as others inhale air. I have a head for facts and figures, a talent for critical thinking and an above average memory. I have a sharp mind, and I became aware of that at a very young age. I built on it until I became the smartest person that I know. It never earned me any gold stars from my parents, and although I'd like to say that that never bothered me, it would be a lie.

As for my brother’s intelligence, on a good day, he could be described as dim-witted; on a bad one… well, that kind of language is best to be avoided. He has always had more brawn than brains, and through some unseemly twist of fate, he was praised for it. My sister and I were encouraged to follow his example. Actually, ‘encouraged’ isn’t the right word. We were often asked why we could not be more like Connor, but the minute Aileen tried to play outside with him, our governess clapped her ear and sent her back indoors to work on her stitches. The double standard was evident and hugely unjust, but Aileen and I endured.

Connor started showing his first signs of magic when he was eight. He’s always been prone to temper tantrums, but back then the shouting, blubbering, and breaking of household items that did not belong to him was accompanied by bursts of power. Nothing terribly impressive, just a few sparks that left burn marks on the floor, but from the way Father raved about it, you’d have thought my brother was the next Merlin.

Aileen performed her first act of magic shortly after Connor did his. She was four at the time, and despite Father’s aversion to his daughters, he started taking an interest in her then, much to Connor’s discontentment. He’d quite liked being the favourite child. Aileen learned to control her abilities far faster than Connor—some may argue that Connor never learned at all, but that’s another matter. Power and skill came naturally to my sister, and although she basked in our parents’ newly granted attention, she never forgot about me, and I am grateful for that to this day.

At first, I thought I was just a late bloomer, and that I would catch up with my siblings eventually. I told myself that there was no rush… It wasn’t until I was ten and a half that I realised that there was, in fact, a bit of a rush.

Hogwarts was less than a year away, and I had yet to show the barest sign of magical proficiency. My parents were horrified at the prospect of having a Squib for a child. Not for my sake; they weren’t sitting around worried that I would feel left out or that I’d have a hard time of it. No, what they found mortifying was the blow it would be to their stellar reputation—that hurt more than I cared to admit, as you can probably imagine.

They started trying to surprise, trick and shock a bit of magic out of me. At the time, I thought they were trying to help me, but even desperate as I was, I was not okay with their methods.

They’d read that most children performed their most impressive acts of accidental magic when they were afraid. Kind of like a survival mechanism, a reaction to imminent danger. So my parents gave me things to fear. I never did any magic, but it did leave me with a trunk-load of psychological scars.

The jump scares, threats, and near-death experiences only stopped when sweet, darling little Aileen decided to step in. She didn’t stand up to our parents—she wasn't an idiot; she knew that would never work—instead, she got so good at controlling her magic that she managed to pass it off as my own.

It wasn’t easy, and it took us months to perfect, but it worked, and our parents were overjoyed. They kept congratulating themselves on how their excellent parenting saved them from the embarrassment of having a Squib for a child. Some people should just never be allowed to procreate.

Aileen and I kept up our charade while we were at home, but there was a rather glaring flaw to our master plan that we failed to foresee because we were too busy admiring our own cleverness.

We finally noticed it when my Hogwarts letter arrived in the morning post.


	3. My Hogwarts Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, I had a posting schedule for this story and had I not completely forgotten about it there'd be an extra ten chapters online by now. Oh, well, I'll do better from now on!

Impatient little younglings, aren’t you? I’d tell you that patience is a virtue, but I recall that I never reacted well to that phrase in my youth, and I’d hate to turn into a hypocrite—I’ve managed to avoid that fate thus far.

Alright, where was I? Ah, yes, the Hogwarts letter…

To this day, I’m still not sure how I got onto the school's enrolment list. Best guess: my parents bragged about my sudden bout of magic powers so much at work that word got out and reached the school. Hogwarts’ administration must have assumed that the error came from within their system. Of course, their only other option would have been to call my parents liars, and slandering the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and his ambitious, cut-throat bride was not the smart option.

Regardless of the specifics, one morning during the early summer of my eleventh year, a large eagle-owl swooped through the open dining room window and deposited on my lap my Hogwarts acceptance letter. I tore into it with shaking hands, half expecting it to be a letter of rejection: _‘Thank you for your interest in this school, Miss Boyle, but you are a Squib, and Hogwarts does not cater to the likes of you. Good day.’_ I was on the verge of tears by the time I got the parchment out of the thick envelope. My vision was blurred so badly that I could barely make out the words. I got there eventually, though, after Mother snapped at me for my silliness. The letter made it official: I was going to Hogwarts.

When I got to my room, away from my parents’ critical eyes, there was a fair bit of relieved crying. I was overjoyed; I’d never been so happy in my life. I was so excited, that the glaring flaw to my deception was not immediately apparent to me. It took a few hours, but eventually the hazy dream state I’d fallen into lifted enough for me to see the problem. Then it all came crashing down.

I remembered that it would be another two years before Aileen was eligible to attend Hogwarts, and I realised that, in the meantime, I was somehow going to have to trick an entire establishment of trained professionals that I was a proper witch without my trusted partner in crime.

I panicked, I cried, I despaired, then I came up with a solution.

Make no mistake, the process was not so quick nor clean. It took days during which I locked myself in my room and refused to come out, no matter what the governess threatened. My parents decided that I was being an attention-seeking brat and left me there. Aileen was the only one who knew what had me so upset; she tried to comfort me, but there was little she could do beyond that.

After three days, I was hungry and tired, and my eyes were so dry that even blinking hurt. I had no tears left to cry, and only then did I manage to work out the answer to my problem.

I’d heard of Muggles, people with no magic to speak of, same as me, who were so adept at sleight of hand, illusion, and showmanship that they could dupe people into believing that they possessed real powers. These Muggles called themselves magicians, and their tricks were going to be what got me into Hogwarts.

You should have seen me that summer; I was obsessed. My early childhood independence was of huge service; it allowed me to make my first foray into the Muggle world, and my desperation gave me the courage to do so alone. I disappeared for hours a few times a week; no one but Aileen knew nor cared where I went, so long as I wasn’t getting into any trouble and was back by bedtime.

It is never wise for a child to wander city streets alone; that is as true today as it was back then. I’m still amazed that nothing ever happened to me, especially given the parts of town that I was frequenting. But back then, I believed myself to be far too clever, and that cleverness made me invincible, which in turn made me fearless.

I went to magic shows; I visited libraries to read all the books available on the matter; I bought all the gear that I could get my hands on, and that which I could not buy or afford, I made myself. Every hour I was at home, if I was not sleeping or eating, I spent practising.

My parents took a day off work to take my brother and me to Diagon Alley. It was perhaps the kindest thing they’d ever done for me. We stopped outside of Ollivander’s Wand Shop, and I very nearly fainted. No matter how good I’d gotten at Muggle magic tricks, I had yet to learn one that would allow me to shoot sparks out of a thin wooden stick. I knew that the minute that I stepped foot into Ollivander’s, the jig would be up before it had really even begun.

I needn’t have worried so much.

My parents had decided to give Great-aunt Bronagh’s old wand. I could have kissed them for it, but I held back; they disapproved of displays of affection—they were so frigid it was a miracle they’d had children at all.

The wand was useless to me; I couldn’t have made sparks shoot out from it if it was the only thing standing between me and getting eaten by an angry troll, but it was all part of the facade.

The minute we returned home from the trip, I poured over my new textbooks. By the end of the summer, I could recite them all off by heart; I probably still could today if the need struck. For every spell in those books, I wrote my own version in a small journal that I kept on my person at all times.

Everything has limits, and obviously, Muggle magic could not stand in for real magic in all matters. Transfiguration, in particular, was going to be difficult to fake, but as even Connor was failing that subject, I didn’t let myself worry about it. Much.

Finally, the time came to board the recently installed Hogwarts Express, an impressive piece of machinery borrowed from the latest Muggle trends that my parents sneered at for the entirety of their time spent on the platform as they saw Connor and me off.

As the gleaming scarlet steam engine left the station, I felt an equal blend of anticipation and trepidation. I was on my way to Hogwarts, but I wasn’t there yet, and the track ahead would not be easy to follow.

My journey had only just begun.


	4. The Sorting Ceremony

I am getting to the point in my life where forgetfulness is par for the course. Some might even argue that I’ve long passed that point and claim that the mere fact that I can still remember my own name is nothing short of a miracle. I find those people quite rude. But regardless of how many more years I live, and the effects that the passing of time has on my mind, I will always remember my very first night at Hogwarts.

The Hogwarts Express made its final stop at a small passenger station in the village of Hogsmeade. I revisited Hogsmeade last year; it hasn’t changed much since the first time I was there. It is still just as pretty and picturesque with small cottages covered in ivy and cobblestone streets, most too narrow for anything wider than a cart. Many of the shops have come and gone, and those that remain to this day have changed hands a number of times. The Three Broomsticks pub is the only fixture which has remained the same, although the owner of the establishment is older than even I and has passed on most of his duties to his daughter.

Alright, yes, enough of the irrelevant details, I understand. Back to my story then.

I was led down a narrow path with the other First Years by a gaunt man whom I would later learn was the school's caretaker. It had rained the night before, and the muddy trail was slippery. I admit that I may have fallen on my backside a couple of times during the long walk, but I shall protect my honour by informing you that I was far from the only one. We were all in a right state by the time we got to the school, let me tell you.

I was the first to spot Hogwarts, and my sudden stop caused quite the hold-up behind me, as well as a few more falls.

The castle was everything I’d imagined and more, with tall walls and too many turrets to count. Every tower shone with knowledge and purpose; every stone bled with magic and authority. It was a palace worthy of kings, and it would be my home for the majority of the next seven years if all went according to plan. Between it and me sat a great lake, its black surface still as glass in the night. At its edge sat many little boats that moved through the water without oars once we were all seated in them. I remember the sprawling grounds and the dark, sinister forest that was a tad too close for comfort. I recall the impressively large front door and the grand staircase that forced me to exercise more than I would have consented to if I were anywhere else but at Hogwarts. I can still picture the Great Hall precisely as it was that day. Even back then, I could name every star present on the enchanted ceiling. In fact, I did just that to calm my nerves.

The next obstacle to the future I wanted was coming up. I’d tricked my parents; I’d tricked the school's administration, but I knew that I could not fool the Sorting Hat. It is an object with more power and knowledge than I care to contemplate; it is centuries old and far smarter than I. I knew that I could not outfox it, so I had devised another course of action.

This was where my predecessor had failed. The Sorting Hat had recognised him as a Squib and had called him out in front of the entire school, putting a quick end to his Hogwarts education. But I would learn from his mistake. I was prepared. I was ready. I’d figured, justly so, that once I got past this point, I was home free. I could not let myself fail.

The Professor called my name, and I dashed up onto that rickety old stool, and the Hat was placed on top of my head.

I’m not sure how the Sorting Hat got so skilled at Legilimency—the art of reading minds if you were unaware, and do not listen to what the snobs say on the matter, they do not appreciate their art being overly simplified and refuse to accept the muggle terminology. Whatever the reason behind the Hat's considerable skill, though, it makes lying to it and concealing a rather essential fact about yourself damn near impossible. But I had a plan which included arguing, reasoning, pleading, bribing, and even threatening. And yes, I did have a box of matches and some accelerant up my sleeve.

Was it foolproof? Definitely not. Was I 100% willing to follow through with that threat? Absolutely.

The Hat sat on my head for a long time as we debated the matter, long enough for me to start seriously worrying about head lice—of course, the more I thought about that, the worse the phantom itches got, but I held out. A few times, the Sorting Hat came very close to announcing for all to hear my magical deficiency, but I dragged it back in with another argument.

The back and forth lasted nearly ten minutes, and although I couldn’t see anything through the fabric of the Hat which was so big that it fell down to my nose, I could hear the fidgeting of those around me. I paid them little mind, only occasionally wishing they’d be quiet so that I could focus on keeping my reasoning logical and calm. Five minutes later, I threw logic and calm out the window, and gave the ratty, old Hat my ultimatum. It paused for a long time as it searched my mind to find my willingness to go through with the threat, before deciding that I wasn’t worth playing with fire over—the literal kind as well as the figurative kind.

It shouted ‘Slytherin!’ for all to hear, and I was thrilled. I practically skipped over to the table decked in silver and green.

My brother and the rest of his Gryffindor housemates jeered as I went to sit at my new House table—smarmy gits, honestly who jeers at eleven-year-olds—but I didn’t care.

I was in.


	5. My First Year

I’ve been thinking about the passing of time a lot since your last visit.

Timekeeping itself is a very human concept; an attempt to make sense of the world that surrounds us and organise the chaos of life.

We like being organised, don’t we? Even the messiest of us have a system, however complex it may seem to outsiders. There is no better illustration of this than our obsession with naming things: our children, our pets, the inanimate objects we surround ourselves with, even the stars burning several light-years away.

We like order. We _need_ order, and so we create it out of nothing. We live our lives and accept that each moment will be dictated by the ticking of a clock because we cannot fathom a world without time.

But I have found, in my many years, that clocks are seldom correct. I do not speak of the impossibility for small, human-made mechanisms to keep up perfectly with the movements of the cosmos; I think they manage that remarkably well, all things considered. My issue is that the passing of time is not only an abstract thing; it is also felt by each and every one of us. None of us experience the same five minutes; some of us see it pass in the blink of an eye, while for others, it drags out into what feels like hours.

Time isn’t real. It is part of an illusion that we have created to make sense of the senseless, yet we have come to obey it without question. If I had known at the age of eleven that I would live for as long as I have, I would have been awed by the length of it and believed it to be a very long time indeed. But as I approach the end of my life, I find myself staring at the slow-moving hands of clocks, and I know that I am running out of time. And I find myself imagining what I would do if I had more time, after I have already had so much.

Make the most of your youth, younglings, for no matter how many years you live, life is short, and melancholy ought not to be welcomed into your deathbeds.

But you did not come here for my melancholy, you came for my nostalgia, and I have kept you waiting long enough.

I recall that I spoke to you last about my Sorting. You will remember that I believed that to be my final and most challenging obstacle. It is perhaps no surprise to you that I was mistaken.

Any hope that things would be easy for me from that point on was quickly proven futile.

Hogwarts’ standards are high, and its classes are hard even for the most magically gifted person on the planet. What chance did my sorry little arse stand of making it through unscathed?

The first month was hell. There’s no other word for it. My classmates struggled, but the same could not be said for me, because ‘struggling’ would imply that I stood a chance, and, at the time, I did not. I was falling behind in a way that even my little journal full of tricks couldn’t save me from. I was homesick, missing Aileen more than anything, and, on the bad days, even longing to see my awful, old governess, just for a glimpse of something familiar.

Before you point it out: no, my brother did not count. I can count on one hand the number of conversations we shared during our mutual time inside those castle walls, most no longer than ten syllables each. We’d never gotten along before Hogwarts, and when the Sorting Hat put me into Slytherin, the rift grew. Most of our classmates often forgot that we were related, something I’m sure my brother was very glad of. We did not look alike. We did not act alike. Connor treated me as though I was invisible, and I returned the favour.

In all fairness to my brother, he did improve slightly in later life. He’s still a prick, as I imagine all older brothers are. But after our parents died, a change came over him, and he stopped fighting who he is. He became much happier and much more bearable after that.

Back to my first month at Hogwarts, though: I cried a lot. That pretty much sums it up.

It did, however, get better.

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but the bad did pass. I’d hit bottom, and there was nowhere to go but up. How’s that for motivational?

I made my first friend, that definitely helped; a little Hufflepuff—even smaller than myself—named Nita Patil. She reminded me of Aileen, only shyer and more prone to blushing. In a moment of weakness, crying on a bathroom floor for the third time that week, I spilt my guts to her. By that point, I was about ready to give up; cut my losses, call it quits, and go home with my tail firmly between my legs to face the repercussions of my actions. Nita snapped me out of it. She may not have understood my plight, but she saw a friend in need, and she did not abandon me. Instead, she started helping me much as my sister had. She became my saving grace, one of the many people I have to thank for where I am now.

Her faith in me gave me the confidence boost I needed to keep going.

But when is anything ever so simple?

The first hurdle my new-found self-assurance came across was a note on the information board in the common room informing first-year students of their first flying lesson. My classmates were ecstatic, but, unfortunately, I could not share their enthusiasm.

Brooms, like wands, are tools that channel magic. Thus, in the same way that Squibs and Muggles cannot use wands to perform magic, we cannot use brooms to fly.

By that point, I was used to the blind panic that came across me whenever something fell out of place. I waited for it to pass, and I found a solution to my problem.

I got out of flying lessons by claiming that I had a parallelising fear of heights, and Madam Hooch bought it. I rediscovered then my talent for fabricated truths.

Unfortunately, Nita and well-crafted deceptions could only get me so far. She and I didn’t share every class, and some teachers just cannot be lied to.

You’re familiar with Professor McGonagall? Well, her predecessor, before Albus Dumbledore, had the same temperament. She was a strict, no-nonsense kind of lady, which is something I would have admired under any other circumstances. But with the situation I was in, it made things rather tricky.

That was when I met Hanna Osei: the most Gryffindor Gryffindor to ever Gryffindor. Brash and brave and fierce, and a little scary.

She caught me crying in the library one day after Christmas break, and her first thought was that I was being bullied. She demanded to know the name of my tormentor so that she could go and teach them a lesson. She persisted despite my denials, and it took all of fifteen minutes for her to get my secret out of me.

I cried even harder then, certain that she was going to tell on me. But she didn’t.

I got lucky, I suppose, by finding people to share my secret with who represented the best values of their Houses: loyalty, honour, and acceptance. Nita was my saint, and Hanna was my knight in shining armour, and they worked together to keep my grades afloat when my own cunning could not.

I don’t want you thinking that my success was due solely to the help of my friends. Their assistance was instrumental, I won’t deny that—I would be a fool to even think it—but I will not have my own accomplishments belittled and ignored.

While my friends came to my rescue for the subjects that require wand work, I studied hard for the classes that did not.

I learned the night sky like it was the back of my hand—a funny expression that I’ve always found quite peculiar; I mean, who knows the back of their hand  _ _that__  well? I discovered that I have green fingers and became the Herbology Professor's favourite student and frequent helper. I brewed potions that could rival any master potioneer’s and even created a few recipes of my own to help me get by when friends and tricks could not. Professor Binns still remembers my name to this day, and it is the only name he has bothered to learn in over a century.

I learned, I deceived, and I excelled.

I created my own kind of power, a power that was not born, nor held in something as uncertain and accidental as blood. I made myself, and that is by far my most significant accomplishment to date.


	6. My Second Year

Still here are you?

I was sure I’d have lost a few of you by now. But look at you all: hanging on grimly to the words of a woman who’s been called senile more times than I care to count. I might well be senile; I’m not sure I’d know if I were.

Last we met, I spoke to you of the illusion of time. I stand by that: time is nothing but a construct. However, that does not make it any less dangerous. Time has killed more people than war, childbirth, and every natural phenomenon there is. It is a deadly and devastating force, weakening its prey before snatching them away from life. Some say that death is preferable to the effects of time; I’m starting to agree with them. Death may be final, but time is cruel. It takes and takes; stealing your health, warping your mind, destroying your body, and crushing your vitality. Death may well be a kindness after the torture of time.

For my part, I do not care what the time that I have left sees fit to do to me, so long as it does not touch my mind. My health has always been fragile, my body has always been weak, my vitality is relatively decent, but it is of no use to me anymore. My mind, however, has always been my greatest weapon and my most reliable shield. Without it, I am nothing, and I do not wish to die as nothing.

I suppose that is part of the reason why I have chosen now to tell my story; so that even if I do forget, you will not.

When we last left this tale, it was at the end of my first year at Hogwarts. I will not go into great detail about the end of year exams. They came, they went, and I endured them. I had a few meltdowns during that period, but I vowed that next year there would be less.

I kept my word.

I spent my summer practising my tricks. They hadn’t gotten me far during my first year because I’d gone in too confident. I hadn’t anticipated much beyond the Sorting Hat, and I’d been too proud of myself after besting the old rag to realise that that was the easy part.

I was better prepared for my second year. I knew what each professor expected from their students, and I knew which of them I could lie to and deceive. As for the other teachers, the ones who were too crafty, too strict and too observant, the summer gave me the time and distance I required to figure out what I needed to do about them also.

After much research and training, I discovered that with the right tools I could be as good at Charms as the rest of them. Muggles are very clever; I’d realised this before, of course, but it was further confirmed that summer when I befriended a proper magician. He was only just starting out, but he was talented and too poor to turn down free help, no matter how inexperienced. I learned a lot from him, even though he never made it big… I believe he went into accounting shortly after I returned to Hogwarts.

No matter.

By the time the Hogwarts Express rolled into Hogsmeade, I felt ready to take on anything Hogwarts could throw at me. You’d think I would have learned by then what cockiness got me. Unfortunately, that lesson took a great many years before I fully understood it.

Like the year before, I did very well in all of the classes that did not require a wand. However, Transfiguration and Charms were still posing issues.

Hanna was always there to help me with Transfiguration, and when she could not, it was of no great importance as the professor expected very little of me.

Charms was another matter, though.

I had all the right tricks to mimic my classmates' magic. What I lacked was the time needed to set them up. Some were quick and easy—a string so fine it was almost invisible attached to a feather to make it appear as though it were floating—but others required more time and were not as discreet to install. This meant that in some areas of the subject, the professor thought that I was brilliant—gifted beyond my years, she once said—but other aspects I struggled with so badly that often I was incapable of performing them. This caused my professor huge concerns; she came close to calling my parents a few times. I always talked her out of it, but I needed a more permanent solution.

Said solution came to me one day a couple of months into the start of the term. His name was Miguel García González; a solemn, Ravenclaw boy in my year whose smiles were very small but very bright.

He offered to tutor me in Charms if I returned to favour in Potions. I refused the first part of the deal for obvious reasons—it was difficult enough hiding my lack of magic from a professor teaching a class of twenty students; I did not wish to rate my chances of doing so during one-on-one sessions.

But Miguel wasn’t comfortable with letting me tutor him unless the arrangement was mutually beneficial.

I could have left it at that, but I’d learned from Nita and Hanna that I needed allies. That although the battle was my own, I needn’t fight it alone.

You might find me foolish for trusting someone I barely knew, but if you’d met him, you’d have understood. He wasn’t charming or charismatic, but he had an aura about him that made him instantly trustworthy and reliable. So I told him my secret—a risky move, but one that played out in the end.

He didn’t immediately jump to my side as Nita and Hanna had—I’d say that he had more sense than them, but I refuse to insult my oldest friends. He promised he wouldn’t tell and he left. I thought I might have misjudged the situation, until he came back a week later, after giving himself sufficient time to ponder his options, and he offered his assistance. I tutored him in Potions and, in exchange, he distracted our Charms professor during class to give me time to set up my  _‘_ _ _fake’__  magic tricks.

I use the term ‘fake’ lightly, because who’s to say it isn’t real?

My methods may differ from those given by the textbooks, but I get the same results as my classmates. Isn’t that what matters?

Some have said that I cheated the system. I argue that the system tried to cheat me. It would have denied me an entire world—a world that I was born into, one that I grew up in, a world that I love—because it operates under the false assumption that different means broken.

But different doesn’t mean broken at all. It just means  _different_. And I decided that different wasn’t such a bad thing to be, no matter what people said.


	7. My Third Year

You’re probably dreading my introductory rant by now, aren’t you?

 _“_ _Get on with the story,”_ I hear you cry. But you brought this onto yourselves by agreeing, from the start, that you would listen to the ramblings of an old woman. How many old women do you know who get straight to the point?

Just you wait until your hairs all turn grey and your bones creak every time you move, you too will lose the ability of concise speech, mark my words.

But if you are so impatient, let us continue.

By the end of second-year, Miguel had become an official member of my small group of friends. Beyond him, Nita, and Hanna, I had no others. That is not to say that I did not garner very close acquaintances. So close, in fact, that they often called me ‘friend’. I could not return the courtesy, though; not with one insurmountable secret between them and me.

The summer between my second and third-year saw Aileen become more energetic than I had ever seen her before. She all but jumped off the walls with excitement.

I admit I had given little thought, until then, to what it must have been like for her while our brother and I were off at Hogwarts, when she was left alone in that big house with no one but our governess for company and, occasionally, our parents. She never blamed me for forgetting to take into consideration her own woes, proving yet again that she was, by far, the better sibling.

She found her own compartment aboard the Hogwarts Express, wanting to get a head start in making friends, and I almost envied her new, outgoing nature. I suppose she must have been going stir crazy, trapped in a house with no one but a mean-spirited old woman to talk to.

There was a terrible storm stirring when the train pulled in at Hogsmeade. While my friends and I sat comfortably in a horseless carriage, I imagined that the new students would be forgoing the boat ride over the lake this year. I was mistaken. Apparently, heavy rain and churning water was not reason enough to do away with tradition. The first-years were soaked to the bone as they trailed miserably into the Great Hall, bringing half of the Black Lake in with them. A few had fallen into its dark waters and left a series of puddles on the marble floor as they waited nervously for their future to be decided for them.

Aileen may well have been the only one left smiling, although I couldn’t say for sure. After only a cursory glance at the other first-years and their gloom expressions, my eyes had fixed on her and hadn’t left her after that.

Hers was the first name to be called, and she ran up to that old stool so fast that had I blinked, I would have missed it.

The Sorting Hat had barely touched her head before it shouted, ‘Ravenclaw’, loud and clear. I wasn’t surprised.

She excelled at Hogwarts in a way that few others ever did. Her natural talents were enhanced tenfold by her love of books and knowledge. And although I have met many powerful people in my time, none have ever compared to her.

She was destined for great things; some say that she accomplished them. I only disagree because I know that she could have done so much more had her light not been snuffed out so soon. Losing her is one of the greatest tragedies that the wizarding world has ever faced. Yet it is one that few people talk about, the extent of her sacrifice having been forgotten with time. I do not forget, though, and I hope that you will not either. I will tell you her story, but not now, not today.

There must be order, so let us do this chronologically.

During my third-year, I got to choose up to three elective courses to take on top of the seven core subjects. My options made me realise for the first time that wand work played—all in all—a very minor role in magical education. Of the twelve courses available at Hogwarts, only three require the use of a wand: Transfiguration, Charms, and Defence Against the Dark Arts.

That being said, during my first two years at Hogwarts, only the theory of Defence Against the Dark Arts was taught, and our wands were kept neatly put away in our bags (I’ll further discuss the practical lessons with you in a moment). As for Charms, what we were taught in that class could be reproduced with relative ease with no magic at all.

So, really, there was no reason all Squibs couldn’t attend Hogwarts, all that was needed were a few small changes to the curriculum, and hey presto! The school would produce fully qualified individuals whose limitations wouldn’t affect them in the slightest in the right profession.

To those of you wondering what those professions are: there are too many to name. There are so many jobs in the wizarding world that don’t require magic, jobs that Squibs can do just as well as any witch or wizard if they were only given the opportunity. Shopkeepers and wand makers; historians and astrologers; members of the Wizengamot and even Minister for Magic, none of these professions require the frequent use of magic. I should know; I’ve tried them all.

But I’m veering off track again. I told you that I’d speak to you about Defence Against the Dark Arts.

My professor in that subject—remember that this was long before Tom Riddle's curse—deemed that anyone under the age of thirteen was too young to need to learn how to fight—I must say, I agree with him on the matter. I’m sure that he would have preferred to keep on giving us theoretical lessons for a few more years, possibly until the end of our schooling, but the curriculum would not allow it.

He started the practical classes slowly, reluctantly.

I needed just as much help in this subject as I did in Transfiguration. Fortunately for me, this professor was far more willing to be duped.

He was a smart man, and I’m sure that he knew that Nita was casting most of my spells for me. But he never said a word. In fact, Nita and I were two of his favourite students.

I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me; it would seem that I’m having a hard time keeping my thoughts straight today. I spoke of the electives all third-years could choose from when I started today’s tale, but I did not tell you which ones I picked. Well, I shall tell you now: I started taking Arithmancy and Study of Ancient Runes, and—much to the surprise of my parents and peers—I took Muggle Studies too.

I figured I had them to thank for all that I’d accomplished, and getting to know them a bit better was the least that I could do.

It wasn’t my favourite subject, but I did like it, and I almost choked on my own tongue when the professor decided to teach us about Muggle magicians at the end of the term. He spoke of them with such fascination and admiration that it filled me with a sense of pride and contentment that I had never felt before. I was one of those magicians that he praised so much. I could perform all of the tricks he spoke of and more. I was worth valuing, regardless of my disability.

I’d suffered for years as people tried to convince me that I was lesser, that I was somehow missing an essential piece of myself merely because I couldn’t do what everyone else could.

But I do not lack anymore than they do.

How many of them can pull a silver sickle from behind someone’s ear without using magic? How many of them know how to make a person vanish without a wand? I can do both those things, and so much more. It doesn’t make me superior, just different. And being different is not a bad thing, no matter what some people might say.


	8. My Fourth Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for how long it took me to write this chapter.

I must apologise for the long wait I put you through, little ones. My health is not what it used to be, but that is no excuse. If anything, it’s all the more reason for me to get to the end of this tale as soon as I’m able before time escapes me. Your patience is duly noted, though, and it shall be rewarded.

I spoke last time of changing Hogwarts’ curriculum to benefit Squibs, to give us the qualifications necessary so that we may adequately integrate into our community.

Over the years, many people have criticised me for this idea, and they have tried to shame me for even suggesting it.

_“Hogwarts is an old institution,”_ they would say. _“_ _Proud and strong; it does not need to be changed.”_

You may have noticed that the wizarding community is very conservative with its values. They believe firmly in upholding traditions and go out of their way to avoid change. I imagine that Muggles aren’t much different. Sticking with that which is familiar and known may often seem like the safest course of action, and sometimes it is. But without change, there can be no improvement, and things will never become better.

It is the fear of the unknown that we seek to avoid by mistrusting change, but sometimes the unknown is precisely what will bring us closer to the next step of evolution. Think about it. Our very distant ancestors feared fire once upon a time until they learned to create it and harness it. Where would we be today if that had never happened? If that change had never been embraced?

Change is good. Healthy, even. Sometimes it is even critically necessary.

You may also have noticed, with your keen sense of observation, that the wizarding community is small, not just in the United Kingdom but everywhere. This low population density comes down to a few factors. Some of the causes are external: years of persecution at the hands of Muggles who saw us as a threat, for instance. I won’t say that that fear is unfounded, but they did go a little overboard with the whole witch-hunting thing. Of course, they did end up killing mainly their own kind, which is its own kind of tragedy.

Isn’t it odd that outside forces are rarely the ones that do the most damage? Instead, it’s our own people who harm us the most. Our families. Our friends. Our government. Our nation. Our species.

It’s the main reason there are so few witches and wizards alive; the cause that comes from within. It’s a long, bloody history of killing those we deem inferior. The most recent example being You-Know-Who’s reign of terror: pure-bloods and half-bloods killing Muggle-borns and blood traitors. Such a silly thing to fight over, but I suppose that everyone needs to feel superior to someone, even if it is over something as inconsequential as a family tree.

One might argue that pure-bloods, for all their talk about prioritising wizard-kind, have been the most efficient at decimating our ranks. Not only due to their renowned and often violent dislike for Muggle-borns, but also because of the single-mindedness with which they pursue blood purity which has given rise to quite a bit of inbreeding, which has resulted in deformity, miscarriages, frailty, and a notable drop in reproductive abilities. But try telling them that.

My point—and yes I do have one—is that the wizarding community is lacking in numbers. Yet it insists on kicking Squibs to the curb. I don’t know if that makes sense to you, but it never has to me. Why turn away those extra hands and minds that are so desperately needed? Perhaps they fear that our condition might be catching. Maybe we’re a painful reminder of what they could have been and of what their children still might be. Or it could have to do with that need for an inferior being; they can’t very well treat us as their equals when a portion of their self-esteem rests upon their feeling of superiority over us.

Whatever the case may be, they would rather shun Squibs than embrace us. I knew from a young age that this was a mistake.

There isn’t much to say about my fourth year, beyond the fact that I founded a study group. It was small at first, but it grew steadily larger as the months passed.

It started with just Nita, Hanna, Miguel, and I. Then Aileen and her friends joined us, and they told people, who told more people, who told more people still until half of the student body had attended at least one session, and many stayed for more.

I talked the teachers into giving me my own classroom, and I was there five days a week, after class until dinner, and then until curfew. I wasn’t the only one doing the tutoring—I’m good, but I’m not that good. People who wished to participate could do so as either students or tutors. The tutors had to have a letter from the professor of the subject they wanted to help others with, certifying that they were competent enough to do so, and by tutoring, they earned themselves some extra credit in that subject.

It wasn’t so perfectly devised at the beginning, make no mistake. In fact, the more people who showed up, the more chaotic it became, and the more I wanted to shut down the entire thing.

It was a second year who changed my mind, one of Aileen’s friends who’d been failing History of Magic since she’d arrived at Hogwarts. She came up to me one afternoon, and she threw herself at me. The hug was so unexpected that it froze me to the spot.

I still wasn’t used to physical contact by that point. I no longer flinched whenever someone brushed against me in the hallway, but I had yet to work through every instinct I had that insisted that another’s touch could only foretell pain.

The girl meant me no harm, though, and I managed to recover from the shock fast enough to give her a few awkward pats on the back before she released me. She showed me an essay she’d written for Professor Binns, which I’d helped her with and which had gotten full marks. I’d never seen someone so happy over a test score before. She asked me when my next tutoring session would be, and I decided that it was worth giving the idea another shot.

After a few more near-disastrous sessions, I came up with a system. I set up a signup sheet in each common room where students who wished to attend could write down the subject they wanted to either study for or tutor in. The information was magically transferred into my little journal, curtesy of Miguel, and I organised that evening’s session over lunch. The signup sheet would then become blank, ready for people to write down their names for the next day’s study group.

Each tutor could decide how many students they were willing to take on. Most were good sports and agreed to take on a couple more when the need called for it.

The classroom was big enough to seat thirty students, which wasn’t nearly enough, so we expanded it to an entire corridor’s worth of rooms.

I won’t claim that it was perfect, but it was pretty damn close for something on such a large scale.

It was a huge help to me. On the nights when I wasn’t tutoring, I joined in as a student in the subjects that I struggled with. I practised and perfected my illusions in front of people who dared not judge me if I failed. When I pulled off one of my tricks in front of their watchful eyes, I gained the confidence I needed to perform it live—as it were—in front of the teachers.

In exchange for their assistance, I taught them History. Professor Binns’ test results were never better.

I bartered my skills for theirs. That’s all any of it was at the end of the day: skills. I can remember every date and event that Professor Binns has ever mentioned. Nita can take on an army of werewolves and not bat an eye. Hanna can transfigure a rabbit into a pair of slippers and back again as though it’s the easiest thing in the world. Miguel can levitate an entire bloody house if he feels like it… All skills, all useful in their own way, none more important than the others.


	9. My Fifth Year

I visited the war memorial at the Ministry this morning. That giant slab of granite at the centre of the atrium where those awful statues used to stand.

It isn’t a monument I frequently visit if I can help it—seeing all of those names immortalised in stone is heartbreaking. Even more so when you consider that many were barely more than children, too young to have made a name for themselves as anything other than cannon fodder. It is the way of these things, is it not? The young fight and die because of the ideals and policies of old men. The soldiers’ names get crowded together on a slab of rock; whereas, even posthumously, the war commanders receive titles and honours.

Do not mistake me, Albus Dumbledore certainly worked hard to achieve what he did, and not all that he received was undeserved, but I could never stand the man. I will not waste my breath explaining who he is. You all know him well, no doubt, which is what he always wanted—to go down in history. And he certainly did, leaving his mark for all to see.

There have been conflicting accounts regarding Professor Dumbledore’s life, and those of us who were not blindly loyal to the man nor hated him without reason have debated long and hard over whether or not he was a good person. You may have guessed my thoughts on the matter, but even a number of his followers have called him problematic.

Personally, I call him profoundly immoral and unethical, and I am not alone in this.

This was a man who was powerful enough and clever enough to prevent three wars, or at the very least stop them from escalating, but he never did.

The first time, his inaction was caused by love. I’m almost willing to forgive him that, but then I remember how many people Gellert Grindelwald killed. No one good can love someone like that.

The second time, I’m not sure what his excuse was. Naivety, perhaps. He always thought so much of himself; I suppose it is well within the realm of possibility that he underestimated his opponent.

The third time, when You-Know-Who returned, he let events play out because he had a strategy to orchestrate, one which ended with the sacrifice of a child. Pragmatic as I may be, I would never have considered that plan as even a possibility. Even now, knowing about the Horcruxes, there were half a dozen other ways to deal with the situation which didn’t involve psychological scarring a boy who’d already been through too much. I was all for locking the snake-faced villain up in a dark cell under several layers of concrete, cutting off his arms, legs, and tongue, and leaving him there to rot. He wanted immortality. Who were we to take that from him?

Many have said that Dumbledore did the best he could under the circumstances. Although I agree that no one man can solve every problem in the world, Albus Dumbledore had more power—both magical and political—than any person I have ever known. He was capable of doing more, of doing better, and, more often than not, he actively chose not to.

Not to mention the number of times when he was presented with a good option and a bad one and chose the latter. He hid a powerful artefact in a school, knowing that it was bound to attract a villainous figure or two, and defended it with protections so weak that three eleven-year-old successfully outwitted them. He ignored proper safety protocols when students were being petrified, and refused to evacuate the school despite knowing that last time such an event occurred, a girl died. He left a child in an abusive home, and there is never an excuse for that. He collected outcasts, buying their loyalty through kindness, and disposing of them when he no longer had use for them. He dragged children into wars instead of doing his utmost to protect them as was his duty.

Dumbledore thought of everyone as chess pieces—a means to an end. He may well be the main reason You-Know-Who failed, but a good deed does not make a good person. It’s important to remember that.

Regardless, though, the wizarding community views him as a hero, and I find myself being almost envious.

Envy—experiencing joy at another's misfortune and grief at their prosperity.

It’s a feeling that we’re all familiar with, even the saints, I imagine, but I’ve never met a saint, so I can’t say for sure.

I am intimately familiar with a wide variety of vices, as you may well have deduced, but envy is, predictably, the one which has plagued me the most. If you have any degree of empathy, you’ll have no trouble guessing why that is.

There were two things that I envied most in others: magic and malehood. The first requires little to no explanation; the second, though, could do with some clarification.

When gender dysphoria became a known and recognised ailment, I came to wonder if it was what had affected me for so long. Research proved me wrong.

My distress was not caused because I felt as though I had been assigned the wrong gender at birth, rather it came from the fact that I deeply wished that people would treat me the way they treated men. In short, I didn’t want to be a boy, but I hated being treated like a girl. Thus, the problem was not in me but in society. This particular dilemma is one that affects countless girls and women, caused by the injustice of unequal treatment.

I’ve spoken of this before when I discussed my early childhood. Connor was treated like a prince while Aileen and I were barely tolerated. Connor was raised to be loud and dominant; Aileen and I were raised to be polite and subservient—although this ploy was not met with much success. And I hated it. I can’t begin to list the reasons why this double standard is so damaging because there are too many to name. Yet, even today, we perpetuate this awful method of socialisation.

I spent years envying Connor, and to this day I sometimes fantasise about what life might have been like had I been born a boy, about how much easier it would be. I have had to prove my worth every day for as long as I can remember, but it has never been enough. Despite all that I’ve done, I am still not treated the way men with less achievement are. I am demonised by some in a way that Albus Dumbledore has never been.

It is harrowing and exhausting, to say the least.

I once tried to explain this notion to Connor, but it flew over his head—empathy and self-awareness are not traits he was taught, although great care was put into instilling them into Aileen and me. His only concession during that argument was that difficulty breeds character. It does not. I’ve met plenty of people who’ve had far easier lives and have just as much character as I do.

Difficulty does breed bitterness, though; as does envy.

I have worked harder than anyone to get to where I am today. It is not selfish to say that I deserve some recognition for that. If I were a man, no doubt I would have it. But I dream of the day when women do not have to work twice as hard as men for half the recognition. There have been times when I’ve seen that day dawning only to have it ripped away. I hope for your sakes that you will be alive to witness it. I imagine that it will be quite something.

Speaking of hard work, though…

Fifth year and the pressure was on. O.W.L.s. were the gateway to the start of everything, and that was both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

My Head of House asked me what I wanted to do after I left Hogwarts, and it struck me that I could do  _ anything _ . I could learn all the potions and the Muggle methods and become a Healer. I could put my silver tongue to good use and go into politics. I could defeat the irony of life and make wands for a living; those fickle instruments that have always refused to do my bid d ing, I could become their creator. I was overwhelmed with the endless possibilities, and I couldn’t have picked just one if I’d tried. 

The exams were rough, but the only thing I failed was Transfiguration. Even if I’d gotten an Outstanding in that subject, I would still have dropped it as soon as physically possible—Muggle magic can allow a person to do many things, but turning a cat into a vase isn’t one of them. I scraped through Defence Against the Dark Arts and decided to drop that too—it took too much effort and didn’t interest me enough to be worth the hassle. I got an Exceeds Expectations in Charms; I could have dropped it, it would have made my life easier, but I liked the challenge, so I kept it.

I’d started my little scheme out of spite—and don’t get me wrong, spite is an excellent motivator—but over time, my motivation started coming from elsewhere also. I was no longer fuelled solely by my desire to blend into a world which didn’t want me; I wanted to show them that I was their equal. That I would not be exiled. I would not be erased. That people like me matter.

I would show the world that power can be achieved and that it is not something that has to be born into your blood.


	10. My Sixth Year

I had lunch with my brother today. It's become quite a regular occurrence which is something neither of us would have thought possible back when we were kids.

Connor isn't the kind of person that I would ever choose to spend time with if we weren't related. I mentioned a few months ago that he's less of a git now than he used to be, and it's true, but he has yet to do away with his male entitlement and superiority complex. At his age, it's unlikely that he ever will. But because we're closely related, we feel a duty to spend time together every so often.

That was how it started out anyway, then I found myself enjoying his company, and no one was more surprised by this than I was.

We started rekindling our relationship after Aileen died. Our shared grief over her passing reconciled us in a way that nothing else could have done.

It helped, of course, that our parents had already passed by that point. Had their toxic influence still been in play, I would have been lucky to be invited to Aileen's funeral. Awful as it may sound, our parents dying was the best thing that could have happened to Connor, Aileen and me. This is a concept that people either understand all too well or cannot begin to fathom. If you're part of the latter group, you may think that I'm a monster for even suggesting it. If you're part of the former, then you know better.

I haven't spoken at length about my parents to you, and I won't. They aren't worth the acknowledgement. Over the years, some have told me that I ought to thank my mother and father for making me who I am today. To that, I reply that I am who I am today despite my parents. I made myself. They had no part in it beyond my initial creation and their many attempts to tear me down.

The abuse I suffered did not make me kind and understanding; it did not turn me into a poster-child for resilience and inner strength. That isn't how abuse works. It does not fall into the category of 'what does not kill you, makes you stronger.' It is not something that can ever be positive or an experience to be grateful for. It is damaging beyond words, and anyone who suggests otherwise is either stupid or cruel.

For a long time, I hated my parents until I realised that they weren't worthy of my hate. So now all they get is my indifference.

That being said, I remember telling you at the start of this story that ignorance is bliss and that I would rather be oblivious. So, believe me, if I were given the chance to be like everyone else and to have parents who treated me as I deserved to be treated, I would choose that life without a second's hesitation. I would rather live in the bliss of ignorance than endure this constant battle to prove my worth and to fight for people who are like me.

I am not a hero. I am not self-sacrificing by choice. I've given up my life for a cause, not because it is the right thing to do, but because it was my only option. I won't lie about that; I won't pretend to be someone I am not. I promised you honesty, and that's what you're going to get.

True heroes, the formidably epic ones, are unbelievably rare. They're the ones who choose to give up their lives for others, not for fame or glory or duty, not even for love. They would sacrifice themselves for a stranger, and that is truly remarkable, but it isn't me. I am selfish and self-serving by nature, and I make no excuses for it.

There's a life lesson there that I can impart on you: never apologise for who you are. Unless who you are is a prick.

There is no shame in liking the things we like or doing the things we do, so long as we are respectful of the comfort of others. Then again, if the people you're making uncomfortable by being yourself are dicks, then you go right ahead and make them as uneasy as you physically can. You owe people your respect, but if they refuse to return the favour then screw 'em. It doesn't matter if that person is a stranger or a close family member, if they don't treat you the way you deserve to be treated, you cut that person out of your life, and don't you dare let them make you feel guilty for it. It's nice to be nice, but never forget that you are your own priority; your well-being tops everything else, and you can't live your life for anyone other than yourself. You will never be able to please everyone, but you can please yourself, so you do you, and know that the naysayers are miserable farts, too obsessed with controlling everyone else's lives to enjoy their own.

Someone once told me that I love myself more than anyone else ever could. I agreed with them whole-heartedly with a smile on my face, much to their surprise. They'd meant it as an insult, you see, but I don't see it that way. Why has loving oneself become a crime? I understand that pride is one of the seven deadly sins, but let's be honest, the man who came up with those must have been severely repressed. You're allowed to like yourself; in fact, I thoroughly recommend it. Once you rid yourself of your self-doubt and become your own most avid supporter, you'll find there's very little you can't do, and your life will become infinitely better.

Liking the person you are is not something to fear or be ashamed of. It's something to strive for. No matter how hard it may be, promise me that you'll try.

If you're not ready for that yet, then at least be kind to yourself and remember that you're doing your best.

Alright, enough of the touchy-feely, self-help advice. It's making my skin crawl.

Back to the matter at hand: me.

During my sixth year, my friends and I finally decided that enough was enough, and we all started sitting together during meals.

The Great Hall seating arrangement is unintelligent and detrimental —you may quote me on that, and I will stand by it. Hogwarts is an institution which claims to want to promote unity between the Houses, yet separates us at every given opportunity, and there is no intelligent reason for it.

I once asked Professor Flitwick—who started teaching at Hogwarts as I started learning there—what purpose the Houses serve. Filius is a very old and intelligent man, yet beyond the maintenance of tradition, he couldn't say.

It would make sense to divide the students if there were a practical reason behind it. For instance, if the system were designed to cater to different learning styles or even to different sexual orientations—I am aware that Hogwarts is a school meant to educate, not facilitate hookups, but Merlin, it would have made my teenage years easier.

But instead of there being any sense to it, we're divided up based on the opinion of a moth-eaten old hat that took a gander at our personalities when we were _eleven_ and decided whether we valued bravery, fairness, intellect, or ambition more than the rest, and then thrust us into an environment of like-minded people.

I have a number of issues with that system. The first being that I know absolutely no one who has the same personality now as they did when they were eleven years old. We have—I hope—all evolved. Our principals and values have changed, and they are ever-changing. Assuming that a child will maintain the same core values for seven years during the most formative years of their life is wildly unrealistic.

My second issue is that the system is rather reductive. I don't know about you, but I'd like to think that my core values are a little more complex and extensive than what Hogwarts makes them out to be. I'm aware that it goes beyond bravery, intellect, ambition, and fairness, but you cannot sum up a person with a short list of adjectives.

Thirdly, where is the opportunity for personal growth? The possibility to exchange ideas and discuss principles with people who have an insight that is different from our own? Not at Hogwarts, that's where.

My final issue is on a more technical level. It revolves around the fact that it is most unwise to give an inanimate object sentience, let alone making it an expert Legilimens. There are dangers there that have been miraculously avoided in regards to the Sorting Hat, but just because it has yet to lose the plot does not mean that it never will. Also, it is a terrible example for the children. Who knows what ideas they might get from it? Someone might one day deem it wise to animate their favourite toy, then where will we be?

All that to say that my friends and I sat together at a different table every meal, and when a professor or prefect would come to tell us off, we'd reason our way out of it or stubbornly refuse to comply.

"Helga Hufflepuff said she'd take them all and treat them just the same, so hold your tongue, Smith. And while you're at it, scoot over, and pass my friends here the pumpkin juice," Nita would say, barely looking up from her crossword puzzle.

"Rowena Ravenclaw encouraged intellectual enlightenment and the civil exchange of knowledge. There's no place better for a bit of that than at the dinner table, isn't that right, Professor Flitwick?" Miguel would point out while piling roast potatoes onto everybody's plates and inviting the tiny professor to join us.

"Forming lasting friendships with gifted people, regardless of their House, is a politically sound move, Black. You may want to consider joining the bandwagon," I would state with a toss of my hair and a smile that didn't reach my eyes.

Hanna's arguments often involved a fair bit of swearing, glaring, and growling, as well as the occasional invitation to duel over the matter. No one ever took her up on it, nor did any one person ever raise the issue twice.

Aileen joined us from time to time, and more often than not she'd stare at my motley group of friends with a bemused sort of look on her face like she couldn't quite believe that these people had found each other, let alone become so close. I couldn't believe it either sometimes, but to this day I'm glad that we did.


	11. My Seventh Year

We’re nearing the end of my story now, and I have but a few tales left to tell. You’ve all been very patient with me, and I thank you for it. Know that I’ve truly enjoyed your company over the past few months.

I see some of you wondering how my story could possibly be near complete when I have yet to finish recounting my schooling. I agree that I look more and more like a tortoise with each passing day, and have clearly lived far beyond the tender age of eighteen. By all accounts, my story should only just be beginning. But in reality, a lot more of import happened during my formative years than did later on in my life. My later years were far from unfulfilling; I was a very productive member of society, ask anyone. But it is at Hogwarts that I truly became the person that I am today.

Besides, there have things that happened during my adulthood that I have spent decades trying to forget. You will find, when we next see each other, that there are holes in my memory. I’m afraid that’s what happens when a person survives not one but three wars.

But more on that next time.

I told you when we last spoke that I am not a good person. This fact has framed the way I see the world because I naturally assume that everyone is like me — to a certain extent.  We see ourselves in others, and our expectations of others come from personal experience.  For instance, I always presume  that everyone has felt envy  because  I cannot imagine what it would be like to live an entirely selfless existence. 

When I was a child, my siblings and I would trade and barter toys and sweets among ourselves. I remember one Yule festival when I agreed to exchange all of my cauldron cakes for all of Aileen’s chocolate frogs. The deal was struck, and the exchange carried out. Only, I hid two of my cauldron cakes and kept them for myself. I had what I thought was a good reason: the cauldron cakes were bigger than the chocolate frogs; thus, the latter was not worth an equal number of the former. Valid as that argument might be, it isn’t the point. The point is that I made a deal and broke it; the point is that I lied. I felt no guilt, convinced that my reasoning was just, but for days I wondered if perhaps Aileen had lied also. I fretted that I had been tricked out of what was rightfully mine because it was what I had done to her.

Aileen felt no such worry, convinced as she was that I was as honourable as she. Aileen was as trusting as they came, whereas I mistrusted everyone.

Do you understand?

I judged her based on my own actions. I had lied, so what was to say that she hadn’t?

Had I not tricked her ,  had the thought never even crossed my mind ,  I would not have assumed the worst because I would not have thought of it as a possibility. My understanding of reality comes from my experience of it, which I observe through the tinted windows of my personality.  I can try to be better; I can lie less and trust more, but it will never change the fact that at any given opportunity I will consider lying — even if it’s only for a second, I will weigh the merits of a well thought out lie. It comes as naturally to me as breathing, and there is no changing that.

My understanding of others comes from my understanding of myself; therefore, I will always assume the worst.

There’s an argument here that can be made in the grand ‘nature versus nurture’ debate: two sisters raised in the same environment but displaying vastly different personalities. I suppose that points to yet another reason why my parents can’t be praised for how I turned out because I was always like this — even before my parents started trying to force magic out of me. A nd Aileen was always the exact opposite. The way I was raised certainly didn’t help in making me what I have become, but neither can it be blamed  entirely.

Whining. Complaining. Blaming someone else. I hate those traits in others, and I loathe seeing them in myself. And so, I have always stubbornly refused to use my past as an excuse for any of my more unseemly actions. I may not be proud of them all, but I take full responsibility for my actions. Always.

I know people who use their sob story as an excuse for being cruel, and I must say that I despise them. But what’s worse is that they’ve tricked people into taking their side. Although, as far as I can tell, this is true only for white men.

People forgive bullies and monsters for the atrocities they commit when details of their pasts come to light, as though a difficult upbringing gives you the right to hurt others. I’ve seen it happen countless times; it’s an everyday affair. The most memorable occurrence that comes to mind—which you will all have an opinion on, I’m sure—is the case of Professor Severus Snape.

For years, it was agreed by anyone with any sense that Mr Snape was not a good teacher, nor a good person, and many tried to remove him from his position—attempts which were always blocked by Professor Dumbledore. But then details of his childhood were uncovered: an abusive father; a negligent mother; a lost friend, and unrequited love. And just like that, everybody lost their mind. Suddenly, Severus Snape was a victim, a tragic hero deserving of our sympathy and admiration. He is revered as a war hero; his sins were forgiven and forgotten overnight.

But let me remind you of his sins—not all of them for that would take far too long, but here are the worst of them.

This man knowingly and voluntarily contributed to an evil organisation intent on genocide and fascist takeover. He tortured and killed innocent people because he deemed them inferior. He knowingly set up a baby to be murdered. When he was given a second chance and given a position within Hogwarts, he spent his time bullying children.

Many people, including some with great power and influence, have used Snape’s ‘love’ for one Lily Evans as redemption for his actions. Personally, ‘love’ isn’t the word I would use to describe the nature of his feelings. ‘Obsession’ and ‘entitlement’ ring much truer. His love was selfish; he didn’t want to see her happy—or else he would have gone out of his way to protect, not only her but also her husband and child. He only wanted to possess her.

Snape hated Muggle-borns but considered Lily Evans to be different. I’m sure you’ve all heard the phrase ‘you’re not like other girls’ at one point or another in your lives. It isn’t a compliment, is it? It’s an insult to everyone like you—an entire class of people that the speaker deems to be subhuman. That is how Snape saw Muggle-borns.

But according to some, that doesn’t matter because he changed sides to save the life of one of those Muggle-borns. Except he didn’t. Not really.

Lily Evans was always in danger. From the moment that war started, she became a target because of her blood status. Yet Snape only acted to protect her after he added a new, shinier target to her back. He put her in even more danger than she was already in. He sentenced her to death. Given those facts, I can only assume that it was guilt, not love, that made him change sides. Had he not been directly responsible for putting the woman he loved in danger, he would have happily remained a Death Eater for the rest of his life, murdering and torturing countless Muggles, Muggle-borns, and blood traitors. Had his lord and master targeted the other child that the prophecy could have referred to, the Longbottom boy, Snape’s loyalties would have remained unchanged.

Severus Snape was abused by his father, bullied at school, and rejected by his childhood crush, but your shitty circumstances are not an excuse for shitty behaviour. And no, his death doesn’t change that.

Try to defend the actions of a man who was put in a position of leadership and responsibility over children and used that position to humiliate and terrorise them. Look me in the eye and tell me that growing up in a neglectful home is justification for actively traumatising students who have been put in your care. Tell me that being bullied in school is a perfectly reasonable excuse for getting an impoverished and disabled man—who fought for the side of the light—removed from the only viable career opportunity and income source he had. Defend him; I dare you.

From a psychological and sociological point of view, he’s interesting. I will give you that. But I will not have in my life people who defend him and insist that he was a good man because a few good deeds cannot outweigh a lifetime of bad ones.

Having a terrible childhood does not give you the right to be a scumbag. You do not get to do whatever you please, hurt whoever you want, manipulate people to get what you desire, and then play the victim card. Your sob story may explain a few things about you, but it will never justify nor excuse being a dick.

Just look at Aileen—or for a more familiar example: Harry Potter. They were both lonely children who grew up in neglectful households. Yet somehow they grew up to be kind and good. Even I manage to be cordial, so there’s absolutely no excuse.

Always remember that you are responsible for your actions and that those actions can and will have consequences.

I learned that in my seventh year.

That was the year that Miguel became Melody.

You know as well as I how conservative the wizarding world is—valuing traditions above all else. People have gotten more tolerant with time, but imagine what it was like in my day. It took a lot of courage for Mel to do what she did, but not everyone saw it that way.

Hanna became Mel’s  personal bodyguard that year, and they got very close. To the surprise of absolutely no one, they started dating a few months later. But it was never easy, and that is what I wanted most for them.

I did what I thought was right. Again, no excuses, but my intentions were never malicious in nature. I wanted to help my friends; I wanted to make their lives easier—freer. I thought I was being clever; I wasn’t. Overconfident and cocky, though, that there was no denying.

I created a potion — two of them, actually, and mixed them together. Their dual purpose was to, a) change the gender of the drinker, and b) inverse their sexual orientation. The effects only lasted twenty-four hours, which I assumed would be enough time for everyone to come to a better understanding of people who were different from them.  I thought wrong.

I sneaked into the kitchens and slipped the potion into the pumpkin juice, the tea, and the coffee. When the time came, I took my usual cup of coffee and was transformed along with everyone else. But it wasn’t how I’d imagined it. There was no ray of light shining with understanding, no inner peace that came with deeper knowledge. There was only discomfort. It felt wrong and unnatural.  And I knew it was coming; I was mentally prepared. Everyone else had a breakdown — students and teachers alike.

I’d made a mistake.

My one remaining hope was that Mel, at least, might be happy because she now had the body she wanted.  She might have been, but whatever joy it might have caused was overshadowed by the fact that  she and Hanna were suddenly attracted to men, which went against every instinct they had.  It nearly broke them and a lot of others. And it was my fault.

I received detention for the rest of the year, and for a long while no one spoke to me. My tutoring sessions were blacklisted; no one sat next to me in class or in the Great Hall, not even Aileen. Had it not been so upsetting, it would have been impressive how quickly I lost everything.

Fortunately for me, my friends had forgiving natures, the likes of which I could never emulate. I extended the first olive branch by tweaking my gender-swapping potion to make it last a lifetime. It went through all the proper Ministry procedures and protocols and became legal; although access to it, the recipe, and the ingredients are restricted. I gave the first official vial to Mel, and once she forgave me, everyone else did.

I came very close to losing everyone I care about that year, so trust me, just because you believe that something is right, doesn’t mean that it is, and it certainly doesn’t mean that it won’t have consequences.

Despite my pitiful state, and mainly due to a lot of late night’s studying, I graduated with eight N.E.W.T.s—Charms, Potions, Herbology, History of Magic, Astronomy, Arithmancy, Muggle Studies, and Study of Ancient Runes—scoring an Exceeds Expectations or higher on all of them. The graduation ceremony was lovely, and taking the boats for one final trip over the Black Lake brought back an avalanche of memories. But all the while, I kept thinking about how badly I’d screwed up, and I kept imagining the waking nightmare that my life would be if the people I love were no longer part of it.

There was no way I could have known that I should have stopped thinking and made the most that last moment of peace—that the nightmare I’d imagined was about to come to life.


	12. The Three Wizarding Wars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had it pointed out to me that I haven’t actually given you guys any indication as to how old Cassidy is. It’s one of the things I dithered on for a while, which is why it hasn’t made it into the story until now. So, although Squibs have no magical powers, I have decided—with absolutely no proof to back this—that they do inherit their parents’ wizarding longevity (i.e. an average life expectancy of 137¾ years). Cassidy was born in 1875, which makes her 144 years old now.
> 
> Enjoy!

I come to you dressed in black, like an elderly and oversized crow, not because the colour suits me—as you can see it really doesn’t—but because I have returned from yet another funeral.

Old age is no fun at all. On top of all of the aches and pains of a body that is slowly dying, you must watch everyone you have ever known suffer the same fate. And if you’re truly unlucky, as I have been, you outlive them all.

Today, I said my last farewells to my brother.

Connor held on for a very long time. It was a competition, of sorts, the last act of our sibling rivalry, to see who would outlive whom. I suppose this means I win. I’m the last one left. Lucky me…

It’s rather fitting, though, all things considered, that he should die just as we embark on this chapter so full of death.

You all look young enough to have only experienced one war—if that. At most, you’ve maybe lived through two. I had to endure three. Three devastatingly destructive wars, each leaving thousands of dead in its wake. And for what? What did that carnage achieve? Absolutely. Nothing.

People say that it is important to make mistakes so that we can learn from them and grow from them. I agree wholeheartedly. Unfortunately, as a species, we are wholly incapable of learning from the mistakes of others. It is that feeling when you do something wrong — the fear, the embarrassment, the consequences — that teaches us a lesson. That swirl of negativity brands knowledge into our brains as nothing else can.  But s eeing others go through it just isn’t the same, and reading about it makes the whole process even less efficient. Unless the shame of a mistake is our own, we will not retain the information, and we will not go out of our way to avoid repeating it.

When George Santayana spoke of progress, he wrote a sentence which has been paraphrased many times since: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

History is taught with a fervour that few children fully comprehend because its importance is never explained to them.  Never was I told as a child to listen  carefully during history classes because the information could one day apply itself to my life.  But  if I had been ,  would it  have  change d anything? Is the way we are taught about our past not counterproductive in more ways than one? We are told to memorise dates and figures, death tolls and events. It is a game of memory — which you well know I cannot complain about — but is it useful? What do we gain from it?  A slight advantage in games like Trivial Pursuits? Surely we should hope for more than that. 

The problem, I believe, is in the way that history is taught. We are told to memorise, but we are never told to think, to consider, to imagine. The historical facts remain impersonal because we have neither lived them nor taken the time to touch upon them intellectually, to delve into and analyse history’s most important lessons.

If we were taught that our past could improve our future, would we pay  the lesson more mind?  Undoubtedly, we would; we’re self-serving creatures, after all. But what do  dates and figures, death tolls and events  teach us? Nothing.

I once sat in on a lecture given by a Spanish civilisation professor, a Muggle woman  with a small stature but a big personality. She did not approve of the way history  i s taught either and did not care one bit for exact dates — odd for a history teacher, no? It was in her opinion that history and philosophy ought to be the most important lessons any school could give because they taught students to think. I imagine that a mathematics teacher, for instance, would say differently, but that’s of no matter.

I’ve often wondered what the world might be like if more people had been taught to think. That makes me sound very high and mighty, doesn’t it? As though I could not also be accused of  a  lack of thought on more occasion than one.

Am I making a lick of sense? I do wonder sometimes. My mind so often gets away from me, dragging me to places unknown, and you all must follow along in the hope that in the midst of my ramblings I say something relevant or interesting — a nugget of gold among the rubble.

My point is that we do not learn from history, and thus, as Mr  Santayana  so accurately put it, we are doomed to repeat.

Three wars in one lifetime… Many have had it worse. Some have lived and died without ever knowing peace; curses and guns are as familiar to them as breathing. But just because your experience is better than that of others does not make it acceptable.

War is one of those unacceptable things.

We like to think that only monsters start wars. We see people like Tom Riddle and Gellert Grindelwald, and we call them inhuman for what they have done. We differentiate ourselves from them because it is easier to believe that they were outliers—that they are the one in a billion—a single bad egg. We do not want to consider the possibility that they were once just like us because that might lead to the paranoia of knowing that anyone could be the next dark lord—your kindly neighbour; your recluse aunt; your best friend, or even a random stranger you see in passing one day.

I do not forgive their actions because they are unforgivable, but we must stop calling them monsters. We must lift that veil of delusion that blinds us to the possibility that we have not seen the last of men like them because if we do not, when another starts to rise, we will not see it coming. And another will rise, over and over again, a wheel of light and dark forever turning.

It is a game, of sorts, and nobody wins for long.

After leaving Hogwarts, I travelled the world. Those were the best years of my life, but they will be of little interest to you, so let us skip ahead.

When I eventually returned home many years later, I did so only at Aileen’s request. Our parents had passed away, taken by dragon pox, and she insisted that I attend the funeral. I hadn’t spoken a word to my mother and father since I had turned seventeen, and I can’t say that I’ve ever regretted that decision. I might have mentioned before how healthy it is to cut the toxic people out of your life.

The global wizarding war had barely begun by that point. No one had yet to call it a war, too afraid to speak the word in case it made it true. But that is what it was.

During my visit, which I had hoped would be brief, I learned that Aileen had been keeping something from me. She had joined the war effort. Had I not been so gobsmacked, I might have jinxed her on the spot.

I had no issue with those who fought against Grindelwald, but I would not have my baby sister joining their ranks. She let me rant and rave for a few hours but remained steadfast. Unfortunately, it only got worse from there. Connor had also fashioned himself into a soldier as had all of my friends. How they had all failed to mention this in their letters and during their visits was beyond me.

They told me that Albus Dumbledore, someone whom I only remembered as a bright-eyed first year, was to blame—although that is, admittedly, not the word they used. For reasons unknown to me at the time, he had decided to take matters into his own hands, amassing his own army of followers to fight against Gellert Grindelwald.

I found myself in a position where everyone I loved was actively risking their lives in a fight that many were already calling hopeless, and none of them would listen to reason. Short of kidnapping them all and locking them up until the fight was won by whichever side, which, in hindsight, is what I should have done, I had only one option. That is how I came to join the war. Not for justice or selflessness, but so that I could do everything within my power to keep my loved ones alive.

I don’t suppose that’s much of a surprise, is it? You probably wouldn’t have believed me had I told you that my reasons were purely altruistic.

The war lasted decades, and I did what I could, which has never felt like enough. Never before had I wished so hard to have magic. After spending so many years fighting to accept myself and stop calculating worth based on magical ability, the war took it all away from me.

When it came down to a fight, I was useless. I would only get in the way, so I was relegated to the sidelines, forced to stand by, brewing potions and watching as my allies fell like flies.

It was the height of the war when Aileen died.

There was a rumour that Grindelwald’s forces planned to attack Muggle orphanages in Edinburgh. Dumbledore sent Aileen and a team of others to get the children to safety, but they weren’t fast enough.

There wasn’t even a body left to bury.

Connor and I held a service for an empty casket, and I never got to see my sister again.

I don’t wish that feeling on anyone.

Half-crazed, I searched for any possible way of bringing her back—necromancy, unicorn’s blood, the Resurrection Stone. But nothing had the power to return my sister as she had been. They could restore pieces of her, but she would be only a shade of her former self. And yet, I considered them. Anything to get her back.

When Connor found out, he shouted at me, and I shouted back; it was the longest conversation we’d ever had by that point. I am loath to admit it, even now, but on that day, Connor was right, and I was wrong.

When we wish for others to return to life, we do so, not for their benefit, but for our own.  W e do not w ant to contemplate a world  in which they do not exist , regardless o f their thoughts on the matter or how much pain they may be in  if they do return . Our motivation is purely selfish.  I did not want to live in a world where my sister didn’t. I would have broken the laws of reality to get her back, even if she would not have been truly herself. I would have done anything. So it is perhaps fortunate that any solution was well beyond my reach.

I yielded to the laws of the universe, and I forced myself to say goodbye.

But enough of that. I find myself tired and wish to finish this chapter sooner rather than later.

Two more wars followed the first. These were caused by a different villain, one with fewer followers than Grindelwald, but I found him far more frightening because he actively sought to burn away his humanity. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Tom Riddle is a man I might have admired had he chosen a different path. Bright, powerful, and charming, he could have changed the world. I suppose he did, in a way, leaving behind a legacy of fear that lives on to this day.

I  again found myself in Dumbledore’s resistance movement because my friends and brother were too noble for their own good. I vowed to do better th ose two time s ; I promised myself that I would not lose anyone else. It was an oath that I could not hope to keep, and which was quickly broken. 

We all lost something with the wars. Nita lost her girlfriend and the last of her innocence. Hanna and Mel lost their son and their taste for adventure. Connor lost his wife and child. I lost my sister and my love for myself. We all lost something; some more than others…

I did warn you that this was a bittersweet tale, did I not?

War is created by men and women who perhaps think they’re doing the right thing at the time, believing that their cause is just. But when they fire that first shot, they have no idea what the chain reaction will be—how many children will scream, how many people will die, how many cities will burn. Our actions have more consequences than we can ever foresee. So for your own sakes, and for those of the people you love and even the ones you hate, if you are ever in a position in which you consider firing the first shot, no matter how small the shot may seem, take a moment to think. 

Think of the past, the future, and the consequences. 

Think of the  wheel of light and dark, forever turning.  A nd break it. 

Be the person who learns.

For all of our sakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Spanish civilisation professor mentioned in this chapter is based on one of my all-time favourite teachers who tended to rant about the state of the world rather than follow the lesson plan.


	13. My Adult Years Beyond the Wars

This is the last chapter of my life.

I shall meet with you again once more to share the last of my acknowledgements, but I imagine that will be the last we will see of each other. I wonder if you find that thought as upsetting as I do, but I’d rather not to dwell on it in case the answer is less than complimentary.

I left you last week on a rather glum note, did I not? Words of past wars will do that—death and destruction are not things one should discuss with a smile on their face. I shall not get into it again; I have said my piece, and I shall leave it at that. But I recall mentioning that the wars stole my self-esteem away from me. As you have no doubt been able to tell, I have since managed to earn it back. Be aware, though: it was no easy feat.

A person’s self-confidence is a shaky thing. One wrong word can send it all tumbling down, and the effort it takes to rebuild it can be outstanding. Sometimes it becomes stronger from the fall; sometimes weaker. There’s no way to tell until after the facts. Remember that. The next time cruel words slither into your mind, take a moment to imagine their effect and the repercussions that may follow. Keep in mind that words can do more damage than a physical blow and reconsider them.

I’m not solely referring to the words you use to describe that classmate you dislike or the colleague who steals your lunch; my point has more to do with the ones you use when you think or talk about yourself. Your negative thoughts will tear down your self-esteem more efficiently than anyone else ever could. It is the most effective method of self-destruction I have come across. Getting rid of those thoughts—the ones that tell you that you aren’t good enough—isn’t easy. They sneak in no matter how hard you fight them, burrowing themselves into your mind and clamping down like limpets onto rocks. Strength of will alone isn’t enough to remove them; that requires a certain amount of stubbornness and a dedication to positivity that borders on naivety.

I mentioned a little anecdote last month about Aileen and me trading sweets, using it to demonstrate how we apply our experiences to those of others. That same point can be made again here. Aileen radiated positivity. She never had a bad thought about anybody. I doubt she would have understood the concept. And yes, to me that made her naive—she could never wrap her head around people doing atrocious things, and she would probably have forgiven them in an instant if they’d asked. But she was happy. She loved others so completely, for everything that they were, that she could find no reason not to love herself just as much.

It may not be the fastest of ways to gain self-confidence, but it’s a start. Think only positive thoughts — about other s and yourself — and destroy the negative ones before they have the time to settle in and poison your mind. If you must be negative, then at least be constructive. 

And be kind. You must always be kind.

Personal improvement is a never-ending battle, a constant dance of gained and lost ground, backwards and forwards to an ever-changing tempo. It’s enough to make your head spin, and it often seems easier to just stop; to give up and give in before you fall; to choose to step out of the game rather than experience another failure. But the dance never ends, and the game carries on with or without you. Believe me when I tell you that the sidelines are a very unsatisfying place to be. The stability is stagnant, dull, and lifeless.

You will never improve if you do nothing; although admittedly, you will never fail either. I suppose it is up to you to choose which you prefer.

On to other things, though.

After each war, the world was rebuilt, and much like a person’s self-esteem, it was not always evident how deep the scars of destruction ran, how fragile that newfound peace really was. Each war was supposed to be the last, but we all now know how that turned out. I, however, was blissfully unaware at the time. We all were. So we rebuilt and did our best to heal as we carried on.

After Hogwarts and between the wars, I dabbled in a few trades. I wrote books on Arithmancy and Astronomy. I became a guest speaker at History of Magic conferences all over the world. I sold the rights to my potion recipes; I studied wandlore under Ollivander; I designed a broomstick that Quality Quidditch Supplies still stocks to this day…

I imagine you know that expression: jack of all trades, master of none. But did you know that that is not the complete saying? Originally it was: a jack of all trades is a master of none, but oftentimes better than a master of one. Isn’t that so much better than what it has become?

Many such sayings have lost bits and pieces of themselves over the years. “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” “Great minds think alike. Small minds rarely differ.” Minute differences which change the entire meaning of the phrase.

But I digress.

When it came to work and hobbies, I never specialised. I was a generalist, versatile and adept at many things—never the best, but that wasn’t my goal.

Hogwarts had left me exhausted. I’d had to work my arse off for seven years, and once it was over, I refused to ever live that kind of life again. I recommend you do the same—none of this grind-til-you-die mentality. You have one life, one precious, fragile life, don’t waste it doing something you hate. You must work because capitalism demands it, but you owe it to yourselves to find something that you enjoy, at least a little. Another solution, of course, would be to dismantle capitalism altogether, pool every resource, invest in robotics to keep everything running, and have a universal basic income. If no one has to work, we could have ourselves a second Renaissance, preferably without the misogyny, racism, and theocentrism, though. Wouldn’t that be nice?

When it came down to my experience in the workforce, my versatility eventually caught people’s eye, and I somehow made a name for myself as one of the most gifted witches of my generation.

When the Ministry of Magic acknowledged that, when they held a ceremony in my honour to congratulate me for all that I’d accomplished, I did something I never thought I would: I revealed my secret to the entire world. On a stage, in front of a crowd of hundreds, holding my Order of Merlin, Second Class for all to see, I told them what I was because I’d made it. A Squib had fought her way to the top of the heap, and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to let everyone know it.

It was a scandal; there was a full-on investigation. Some outraged pure-bloods wanted it to be tried as a criminal case, and it almost was. What I did was illegal. I misrepresented myself and cheated the system. But legality is a construct of the powerful, not of justice. Slavery, colonialism, apartheid, genocide… a long list of atrocities that were—and still are in places—completely legal. Without ethics, laws are just the stories we tell to justify horror and inequity.

I fought, obviously, and, fortunately for me, I won. The case was dropped, the laws were changed, and I got to keep my awards and earn a few more.

The Hogwarts’ Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, invited me over for tea recently and asked me how I had done it. I told her about my Muggle tricks and my clever friends. Then we discussed some changes to the school's curriculum to cater to children who were born different and work on some bloody inclusion measures. And that is perhaps my greatest achievement.

I was thrust into a stressful environment which was not designed to accommodate people like me, and against all  of the  odds, I thrived. Not everyone manages that, though. I very nearly didn’t. Luck alone saw me through, which is why things need to change.  If e ducation is necessary for success, it shouldn’t be a battlefield — not when the ones fighting are children, and certainly not when the fight is unfair.

To those who say that the unfairness made me stronger, know that you are wrong. I was a child. I  didn’t need to be stronger.  I needed to be safe  and secure,  but those were things that I never had.

Some people don’t see the unfairness. They  “never use disability as an excuse”  and b elieve they’re being positive and motivational. They’re not. People with disabilities have limitations that are not negotiable.  If someone with a disability tells you they cannot do something,  it is not an excuse; it’s a statement of reality.

And while we’re at it, s aying to someone with a disability that they can do anything they want if they put their mind to it may seem supportive and kind, but trust me, it’s not. A person can’t live on an increasingly strained hope that someday they’ll be good enough, especially if you keep implying that who they are and what they do  _now_ is worthless. Instead, tell them that the things they are capable of doing matter  and make them matter. They cannot change ,  no matter how hard they may try, so the world must change for them  because that is what is fair. And if anyone dares to say that the world isn’t supposed to be fair, then you give them a firm telling off because, of course,  that is  what it’s  supposed to be. You are supposed to enjoy your time here because that is what living is; it is the very definition of it.

So enjoy it and fight to ensure that everyone can.


	14. My Acknowledgements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Cassidy’s last chapter. Before jumping in, I want to thank you for getting this far. I have enjoyed telling this story so much, and I can only hope that you have enjoyed reading it just as much. Leave a review if you feel up to it; I can’t say how much I would love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> If you want to read more from me, I have started rewriting my Kali Black and the Prisoner of Azkaban story. Take a peek if you’re interested, and please enjoy this last chapter.

Jean-Paul Sartre once said that Hell is other people, a phrase which is often misquoted, misunderstood to mean that our relationships with others are invariably torturous. But the meaning the French philosopher intended for it is far less antisocial. According to Sartre, Hell is other people because we are surrounded by their watchful gaze—trapped by it. There is no escaping the judgement of others, and it is this judgement which dictates our actions: how we must behave, dress, act. If not for the judgement of others, we would feel no shame, and without shame, we would be free.

He isn’t wrong, but what would we do with that freedom? The cynic in me imagines a world of pure chaos, with no law or order. For if there is no judgement, what is to stop each and every one of us from acting on our worst impulses? Some people already do regardless of our laws because they believe that they can get away with it. But what of the others? Those who push down their worst impulses because they do not wish to be judged unfavourably by their peers? Without that judgement, there would be nothing to stop them. Then what would the world become?

I’ve been called a pessimist more times than I care to count. It is a fact I cannot deny, but we live in a pessimistic world, do we not? You need only read the news to see the proof—in terms of percentages, how many stories covered do you suppose are negative?

Open the morning paper and take a look. Reporters seldom write big stories about the good news because they know that our interest in those is limited. Instead, they gore us with details of angst and tragedy, theft and corruption, murder and death. Humanity has a morbid fascination with the macabre. It’s why we slow down and gawk at car crashes, why we spread violence in our literature and our filmography, why our base impulses are, on occasion, so uncivilised. Perhaps we truly are nothing more than violent beasts who pretend to act as society dictates because we fear the consequences of judgement.

Or perhaps we’re more than that.

My cynicism has been tempered over the years. I have witnessed too much human decency to be left indifferent. I know that there is good in this world. It might be hard to see it some days when the darkness is so overwhelming, but it is always here, plain to see if you can look away from the bad. It is what gives me hope. Perhaps one day, when everyone decides to focus on the good, the world will become brighter.

Kindness and respect are what will get us through, as they always have.

Perfection might be an unachievable goal, but we must strive for it never the less. We cannot sit back and let things happen, not when we can make them better. So let us make them better. Let us be kind, respectful, and optimistic. Let us look on the bright side and see hope wherever we go. But let us also be realistic. We shall not allow our hope and optimism to blind us. We shall not turn a blind eye to injustice and wrongdoers. We shall forever strive to make the world a better place, not just for ourselves, but for everyone. And we shall not be disheartened when we run into setbacks and obstacles.

Anyone who has studied history knows this: humanity goes through endless cycles of war and peace. I’m not naive enough to believe that this peace is any different. It isn’t permanent—it can’t be—because there will always be someone who sees things which are different as broken and wrong, and they will want to get rid of them. But with each new war, battle, and struggle, we learn, and we evolve, and hopefully, we become better.

Despite the heartache that the wars caused, I truly believe that what we gained is more important. We won, and in doing so, we came a little bit closer to true equality.

I dream of a world where difference is celebrated, where saying that someone was born twisted and broken is an act so inconceivable that no one is ever made to feel lesser no matter what or who they are. We aren’t there yet, but I hold out hope that someday we will be. I won’t be around to see it, but know that when it happens, when you achieve that level of tolerance and acceptance, I will smile down from wherever I end up, and I will thank you.

My time is nearly up.

I admit that when I started this story, I never imagined it would be so hard to end it. I never thought I would care so much about all of you that seeing you walk out that door for the last time would cause me such distress. I might have asked you to stay—just a little while longer—but that feels too much like begging, so I won’t do that.

Know that I have appreciated your company more than I dare say and that you have made an old woman’s last months brighter and happier.

Know that I have meant every word I have ever spoken to you.

There is still so much I want to tell you, but I’m afraid this is goodbye. I hope you found what you were looking for when you came to me. I hope that I helped. But most importantly, I wish you well.

Thank you.

And goodbye.


End file.
